Most interesting article I've read in awhile...

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/02/fashion/02love.html

I suppose that happens. A friend of mine met her now-fiance in the middle of India a few years ago. Their first date consisted of him being slightly bloodied up in a motorbike accident...yet he still showed up for their first date. Sign of a keeper, I say.

"Hi, I'm bleeding profusely from my leg, but you know, Date > Hospital." It's a contemporary fairy tale.

There are the stories of people who fall in love with someone they met on an airplane, in aisle 38.

The story of the couple who met at a gas station. 

My friend L met her boyfriend after they both pulled up at the same time to a gas station and he bought her a bottle of water and struck up a conversation. Fellas hitting up bars and clubs...you are clearly hanging out in the wrong places. Gas stations are where the love connections happen. Y'know, the sweet smell of gasoline is as much an aphrodisiac as oysters and chocolate, right?

It's a matter of happenstance, but what happens when you try to set yourself up for spontanaeity? Or, you could scrap that and think of love like an economist does...Spousonomics, anyone? 

Who knows, but suddenly, gas stations, airplanes, and motorbikes seem that much more romantic. You could meet your next big love in the laundry detergent aisle...now get laundering.

Remember when that book, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten" was released? It may have missed a chapter prior to publication. Entitled, "That kid who gave you a bloody nose / stole your Tonka truck / Barbie / told on you / relentlessly picked on you / threw dodgeballs at your face, you really can't be friends with".

Really, you know that saying? "Let's be friends" is like saying "Well, the dog has died, but you can still keep it if you want to." Not a far stretch. I've always been in the camp that believed friendship with exes = ticking time bomb to to delayed arguments or seriously awkward moments. 

I did try it on for size once, though (also a member of the "Don't knock it til you've tried it" camp). I'm not sure what passing kidney stones feels like, but it can't be much worse than this was.

Chris Rock-isms are right. Every single one of them. What is it he said? "When you meet someone for the first time, you're not meeting them. You're meeting their representative. Then, after about 3 months, you meet the REAL candidate." Or, in most cases, after you break up.

And that candidate is not pretty--you thought you were dating a Calvin Klein underwear model with the giving nature of Mother Theresa, only to meet the real guy later--toupe, dentures, and maybe steals from donation jars.

In my one attempt at the "Let's be friends" happy ending, it ended in a really ironic episode of "How I Met Your Mother" and a fairly mutual understanding it wasn't ever going to work. Oh ya, and an awkward, "Ok, so uh, I'll see ya...ok bye."

Scenario: We decided to hang out for an afternoon
Players: Him, me, friends of his
Obstacle: Awkwardness
Weapons: Patience, tolerance, delusion?

His roommate let me in, and as I dropped my things off, I could smell a big whiff of...Jamaica, let's say.

"This is what I gave up?" I thought, as I rolled my eyes. Yes, I had given up what seemed like an 18 year old directionless reefer cheerleader.

The place was a mess, with papers and clothes scattered about. 

He and his friends greeted me, and I don't think I have telekinetic abilities, but well, I did for at least 3 seconds. Or imagined it. I told you delusion was one of the weapons.

"Weiiird. Why are we hanging out with exes?" is what the faces said. Faces do speak. Like when your face says, "That guy over there just farted." See?

They settled on an afternoon of Netflix, snacking, video games, and repeat. 

"Shit, this is what 'hanging out' meant?", I thought. My idea of hanging out was lunch and a walk and talk. You know, adult hanging out. People who actually do things-hanging out. I had already agreed to this, so I didn't have Plan B as an excuse to bail.

I had a feeling this would look like the movie Half Baked, where nothing of note happens. Positively nothing.

After a sarcastically 'wonderful' screening of "The Iron Giant", and a marathon of bad TV, we landed on an episode of "How I Met Your Mother", in which Ted recalls how he broke up with a girl on her birthday. On her answering machine. Right before her surprise party. Lily screamed at Ted, hitting him, yelling, "What kind of jerk does that?!"

Uncanny similarities. We had broken up right before my birthday. Cue epic levels of silence, fantastically soap opera-drama-level awkwardness, and a tension in the air you could cut with a butter knife.

I could almost sense his friends' butt cheeks clenching in the midst of the awkwardness. There they were, sandwiched between fresh exes. The world is a cheeky prankster, I can swear by it.

As "friends", we avoided each other, avoided topics that we knew would just lead to long, uncomfortable discussions that would end in an ugly place, pretty much avoided serious topics altogether.

We parted, with a hug, a half smile, and a wave. It was like all the closeness experienced as a couple was replaced with that hug with the 1 ft space between your bodies that only strangers do. Not literally, but it may as well have been.

And that, there, is your real candidate. When you are with someone, you see them through a different lens, admire their ambition, drive, dreams, candor. After the fact, you realize they starred in Half Baked and could be, well, pretty damn boring. Were you dating an avatar? Who knows. 

You can keep the dead dog in the house, but eventually, it's gonna start to stink...

On the heels of the demise of my last relationship, I wavered between eating my emotions in the form of Ben & Jerry's / an endless pit of Kix (don't ask) cereal / cocktails my friends likened to an emotional form of Robitussin (recall Chris Rock and his "Pour that 'tussin in there!"), and examining my relationship and relationships as a whole with the eyes of a forensic pathologist.

Ok, it was either that or gain 10 lbs in mopey sad-girl weight. And after years of spending $$$ on pairs of skin-tight skinny jeans and yoga classes, that was not an option...

So I decided to toss my pint of Cherry Garcia, and start a little research. Anyone who has ever taken a course in journalism knows that it only takes a tiny spark to ignite a flame of curiosity.

I started with my friend C, known for his...prowess, shall we call it? His brain was mine to pick. I asked him, "So what's your deal? How many women are you seeing now?"

He responded with a smirk, "Well, 9."

"9?! What do you do, track them in an Excel sheet?" I couldn't remember the last time I had 9 of anything simultaneously. Maybe a 9-pack of toilet paper. 

"Well, not Excel, but I do have a system for remembering who I went out with when..."

I wondered if this kamikaze dating method was a result of his last relationship--2 years of tumultuous monogamy. So he decided to pillage a village of women after the shackles came off.

"Ok, so you're just playing the lottery, then, right? Upping your chances of meeting someone cool by dating as many women as humanly possible at once?" Seriously, how many protein shakes and 6 Hour Power Energy Shots does that take?

"Well, they're kind of time killers. I may meet someone cool out of the batch; I may not. And you may judge me, but I'm fair with all of them." I saw a debate coming.

"Fair? How's that?" I could sense my eyes rolling, followed by the furrowing of the brow. Knee-jerk reaction. Unstoppable.

"I'm upfront and honest with all of them from the start," he justified.

"So each of them knows they're 1/9 of the C Equation, eh?" I wracked my brain, trying to remember the last time I had a conversation with a woman while she boasted of her multiple conquests a la Alexander the Great. Yup, nada.

"Well, they don't know the numbers, but each of them knows she's not the only one."

"Hm, ok. Fair enough. They know what they're signing up for."

"Listen, it's really just this new thing I decided to try. I mean, I manage portfolios for a living. And I try to diversify. That's my job. And I mitigate risks. So why not apply the same methods to dating?" 

Ok, here we go...

"Go on...I'm ready for this. Now pitch me this revolutionary idea you have," I said.

"Well, I'll give you an example. One of the girls I was dating, I actually thought I'd want to be in a relationship with. She was really cool. And it's been awhile since my last relationship, but I thought I'd want to give it a shot with her."

This is about as close to vulnerability a man will get. In a public space. One day. One day. I just want to see some tears. 

"And? What happened?" 

"She didn't want a relationship. She told me she wasn't over her ex. You know, same story, different person."

"So you're saying that because you were dating 8 other women, you had something--well, 8 things--to fall back on?"

"Exactly! If she was the only girl I was dating, I'd be crushed. Because I would have invested everything emotionally into just her. BUT, by diversifying my portfolio, so to speak...I mitigated my risk of being hurt."

"Wait a second. You just made a finance-relationship analogy using the term "MITIGATING RISKS"...I'm not high on acid or something, right?"

I'd say I was rendered speechless, but my speech was more along the lines of "What in the F?!"

"Ya. What's wrong with that? I didn't feel so horrible about it because I had protected myself. I didn't invest in just one thing. I mean, person."

"Ok, I get your logic, but you mean you'll just hold everyone at arm's length--meaning, your army of women--so you won't get hurt? So how are you ever going to feel anything for anyone? It's like reading the back cover of 9 books, and never cracking open the actual books."

"See, I know you don't believe me, but my system works. Or it has so far. I haven't been hurt by anyone. And I've been having fun."

"I guess. But still--it's still the same thing as treating people as commodities that can be traded and aqcuired...it's a little cold, no?"

"Well, that's what dating is. If you don't diversify, you risk way too much with just one person. You have to know your own value, what you bring to the table, and invest accordingly..."

We mutually agreed to disagree and leave the whole conversation in grey area limbo. Any further and I had a feeling this was going to end in Excel models, some comparison of dates and ROI, and a PowerPoint presentation.

So maybe if C is right, our noble men of this century will be so charming as to ask you out on a date like...

GUY: "Hi, I'd like to invest in you as part of my diversified portfolio."

and the woman will jump for joy at the level of romance, and unicorns and rainbows and diamonds will fall from the sky. And her eyes will light up and burst to huge proportions like an Anime character. 

It can't be a coincidence. Six years ago, I had a watch all wrapped and ready for the (at the time) love of my life (turned out he was the love of a few months--maybe the love of a gnat's life).

The next week, our relationship crumbled like a poorly made macaroon. 

For relationship #987943 (really, who keeps count anymore), the watch was the latest present. In transit via UPS, our relationship died like the crowd's laugh at a bad comedy show. 

They say you shouldn't give cutlery as a gift: it's bad luck. In Chinese culture, it's seen as a bad omen to give or receive a watch as a gift--it's a curse of time or something of that sort. Perhaps counting the days to the end of something. Perhaps just superstition, but maybe not.

Oh, how those beliefs bite you in the bottom when you overlook them.

When the cut is fresh, it's difficult not to feel numb, like all of the blood has rushed out of you, and you're left with only the shell of a body. I'm a believer that every city should have one high cliff (uh, gated for the really fragile ones), where victims of fresh break ups can go and cry, scream their lungs out like wolves howl at the moon. All of the frustrations, anger, disappointment, and sadness can escape your broken spirit and drop to the bottom of the earth.

L is someone who has an overwhelming power to project onto someone, his view of them. And make them once again believe in their own beauty and strength, when everything feels bleak. He's an old soul, spirt, and often sounds like a 70 year old man on his rocking chair, feeding you stories of the pain and happiness he has felt with such vigor in his lifetime:

"You know, the one thing I know, if I know anything at all, is that everyone seeks closure. Everyone wants to be heard. If you don't have your say and let your voice be heard--everything you ever felt--without caring what repurcussions may come, you'll never feel that sense of closure.

The worst has happened--it's done--what more can words do? If murderers can have their say, their voices be heard during trial, why can't you? You just say what you feel, and everything he ever made you feel, good or bad, and be done with it. Everyone owes that much to themselves."

I think back on relationships that have come and go. We have a tendency to do a post-mortem on all that flourish and die in our presence.

I'm reminded of the way I've always hoped--perhaps with more optimism than I've ever credited myself with. When circumstances weren't perfect, when relationships felt out of sync, when I secretly acknowledged that both parties were walking on separate roads. I always found myself thinking that the two roads would meet somewhere in the middle. Out of sight. But always there. Maybe built out of hope alone, but there. 

I can remember all the heartbreak I've felt--for love, for family, for strangers. The physical toll it takes on your insides, like all your organs have been thrown in the wash and are simply tumbling without reason. Heartbreak never makes an inkling of sense, and it sometimes makes me wonder how anything in our bodies is so connected when no one piece inside seems to fully comprehend the other.

Regardless, there is humor in everything. You just have to look for it. And life is nothing without laughter, even in the gloomy times.

L remarked, "Well, your heart is crazy sometimes. I think logic is useful when your heart's going kind of mad. Like when you love someone so much--you want to go and fetch a cab and stand outside their window at 3am, but shit, then you just look like a crazy person or insane stalker, you know? That's when logic comes in handy."

I laughed uncontrollably. And maybe that's all you can do.

Blowouts to the left, thigh-hugging skinny jeans to the right. 

We walked into the latest club that had just opened, expecting the Ibiza-appropriate house beats that have become the latest trend, and perhaps a sprinkling of Herve Leger throughout.

Then I was introduced to The Italian, a friend of a friend of a friend. You know how it goes. We exchanged Basic Italian 101:

"ah, como stai?" 

"bene"

mind: "Good Lord and the Pope, your pants are so tight!"

mouth: "Ah, dov'e il bagno? ok that's the extent of my Italian."

As we reminisced about Europe, his next statement sprung up like a basketball to the face.

"You know, I think Asian Americans are beautiful. I told J yesterday that I really wanted to try dating one."

"Um...come again?"

"Yes, I think that Asians from Asia are too slender. But Asian Americans are a little more curvy but are petite in the right places."

mind: Stop. Now. Digging hole deeper.

mouth: "Uhhhh..."

"I mean, Asian American girls have that eastern look but sort of western features. It's very pretty."

I may as well have been drooling from the mouth at this point. How does one respond to this?

"Like, you're very cute."

"Um." My mind was still focused on his extremely tight white pants that looked like cotton saran wrap on his gams. Maybe a tightly rolled cigarette.

"Oh, ok...thanks? I think?"

"Yeah, I'd really like to try an Asian American girl. They're so much better than ones from Asia. I need to find one."

Was the loud bass / speaker disorienting me? Perhaps the laser lights and disco balls? What. The. 

Perhaps it's a European - American disconnect. A miscommunication. Kind of like how American girls often can't decipher whether a European man is gay or just a killer fashion-forward bloke. The radar is all sorts of out of wack.

I still felt as though I was hearing something akin to, "I prefer this kind of oriental rug made locally. It has a nicer pattern than the ones produced in Asia." Please do not discuss women as though they are ecommerce items or a Crate & Barrel plate that can be added to a wedding registry. Or a spicy dumpling that you "try".

Maybe I just need to learn the word "tool" in Italian. Backup: I'm sure there's also a way to express that with a particular hand gesture.